


Soulmates Reborn

by CrimsonNi



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Amputation, Canon Rewrite, Child Abuse, Chronic Pain, Drug Addiction, Gen, Hallucinations, Ice bath, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Leg pain, Pain, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Platonic Soulmates, Post-Infarction (House M.D.), Pre-Infarction (House M.D.), Romantic Soulmates, Soulmates, Vicodin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-11 20:29:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19934041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonNi/pseuds/CrimsonNi
Summary: I've been binge-watching House, and like many, felt that canon needed a redo. Particularly with the Cuddy & House relationship. Personally, I'm an anti-Huddy, so I concluded their breakup a little differently.Cuddy has just broken up with House and he goes through an existential moment.





	1. Epiphany

He recalls laying in the hospital bed--the _Stupid Era_ he dubs it--soaked in every natural fluid his body could secrete. He remembers the ball of regret pressing against his impulse control, begging him to retract his decision, screaming at him to admit he made a mistake and to _amputate the leg_. Years later, of course, he realizes that he should have listened. His leg, any limb for that matter, was not worth the aftermath that followed. 

Yet...if he could find a silver lining in that decision, it had to be that it showed him pain better than anything else he ever had or would come to learn in experience. It wasn’t that it was _just_ physical pain, because Wilson was right; his leg reacted to emotional stimuli everytime he was hurt. The stint with his parents visiting (and John being disappointed-- _again_ ), Stacy and Mark, and now...Cuddy, was murdering the functionality of his leg. She finished coming over with glassy eyes and frizzy curls, speaking in a broken tone that had cracks talking louder than her words; she finished tearing into his skin, burrowing her poison into his heart. House could not say that he was left broken--because he was always broken--but he was left rusted and crooked, _raw_. It felt as if his muscles and veins were open on an operating table, feeling the draft of the room.

 _It really happened, she left me_ . The mantra repeated hundreds, thousands of times despite the high of the Vicodin coursing through him. For every time the mantra sounded clear, he took another pill accompanied with salty tears. _Ah, there it is_ , the signs of him ODing. Aside from the tears falling carelessly, his body temperature skyrocketed, nausea pinned him down, slivers shook him, his vision blinded him; he figured he was dying. Strangely, the only thought that crossed his mind wasn’t Cuddy and her tearful face, it wasn’t Cameron and her privileged pity, or Stacy and her nostalgic calm--it was Wilson. House remembers when Wilson found him OD’d on his living room floor during Christmas. 

It wasn’t what broke the camel’s back, but it was one of the many stints that’s held Wilson back from forgiving him or trusting him the same way ever again. House knows, Wilson will always love him, as it is in reverse, but their friendship isn’t built on health and strength. It’s like a combination of every viral, bacterial, and fungal infection known in medicine. In the sense that it’s fascinating, cool, beautiful even (in the right light), but ultimately deadly if left untreated. It’s better if House dies tonight and finally leave Wilson, just as Wilson tried to do with him after Amber’s death. The umbilical cord can finally be cut and Wilson can live; happily and healthily. The Vicodon gripped his chest with Hulkian strength and finally, House felt himself let go. 

\---

The sound of running water brought him to consciousness. After a number of beats--House counted 30--he heard footsteps approaching him. Part of his “geniusness” was observing and learning a lot of things, including the sound of everyone’s footsteps. It wasn’t Wilson’s or any woman he’s known in his life, but there was serious familiarity to it. Even, uniformed, heavy--with a gasp, House sat up and whipped his head around to find the source of the encroaching beast. The name couldn’t even pass his lips because of how oxygen-deprived he was.

“It’s time for a bath, Greg.” The voice was exactly as he remembered in his youth. As even as his gait, deep and sterile, but full of unholy anger.

House looked at his hands, wondering if he time traveled to the past, except his skin was still as aged as he last remembered. The icy blue eyes called his attention and silently repeated the earlier order. The child inside of House whimpered and begged his older body _to just listen for once_. And surprisingly, he did. He rose from the floor and dragged his broken frame to the bathroom where a full tub of ice water awaited him. Tears that he assumed were long dried and gone from his childhood returned with a vengeance. 

“Stop crying, Boy, and get in.”

Inner Greg begged him again to listen, to get in the tub even though the trauma of past resurfaced to remind him just how much this scared him. _It’s just like jumping into the ocean_. He’d tell himself that everytime he was forced to do this, that mere cold water was not going to break him. Constricting fear speared him as he undressed himself; for each article of clothing removed, there was a draft caressing his skin. Hot bile bubbled at the base of his stomach, whispering in a tone of its own for freedom. When he removed his pants, he felt the dent on this thigh and was reminded that it should be throbbing, yet he could not feel a thing. He prodded at it again, picking at the edges, yet still feeling nothing.

Before he could wonder how it was possible, he was grabbed by the arm and dragged to the edge of the tub. Somehow, he could feel the cold before he was in and that provoked the bile to dangerous levels.

 _“Please,”_ he silently begged.

“Get in.”

His skin screamed in agony when he dipped his foot into the water; the ice sloshed aside the deeper he inserted himself. He was desperate to jump right out but Inner Greg told him ‘no’. _Listen to him_. By the miracle of some deity, House was fully seated, covered to the waist in ice water, which was better than when he was a child, small, and covered all the way up to his neck. Still, he shivered with fresh tears brimming; he looked up at the icy blues that somehow were not his origin.

“How did we get here, Greg?”

House could not respond but he wasn’t sure if it were due to the cold water or fear.

“You should be dead.”

“Is...Is that what...you’re trying to do?”

“What, kill you? Why do that, you’re doing such a great job of it yourself. Bout the only thing you can do right.”

He was right, of course. Because for all of House’s intelligence, he was still sitting in a tub (he must have made) while talking to his hallucinatory father. Memories reminded him of how he could not keep a relationship, make friends, or _be normal_! Sure, he was a good doctor, and he could cook and play the guitar, but him and life were like two separate (polar) entities. He knew not how to live with life.

Another 30 beats and the chill began to turn numb. “Why are you here?” 

  
“C’mon, Greg, you think solving the puzzle is going to be that easy?”

“No, if I needed to figure something out, CB or Kutner would be here.”

“But you’re broken brain chose me.”

“To remind me what kind of shitty person I am.”

“You need me to remind you of that?”

House shook his head. No, he didn’t because he _knows_ he’s a shitty person. He doesn’t need hints or brail or hieroglyphics because he knows it as if it were the most logical fact known. His leg pulsed, vibrating the ice from within. 

“Why are you here?” He asked again, albeit quieter.

The icy blues darkened. “Why are _you_ here?”

_You are a dancing queen_

_Young and sweet_

_Only seventeen~_

Were the situation any different, House would be smiling, maybe even humming the lyrics before answering to Wilson. “I need to get that.”

There was a questioning eyebrow raised that joined a deep frown on the old face. “And say what?”

“Cuddy’s probably told him--”

“And say what?”

 _A million things_ , House thought. He wanted--no, needed--to say sorry. Sorry that he failed, sorry that he lied, sorry that he’s not really sorry…

He wanted Wilson to come and be a pest, like he usually was, and drag him out of this tub. To throw a towel at him and tell him to get dressed--by himself--even though his leg is blasting with pain. To yell at him about how stupid and pathetic he is and analyze why he did what he did. How inevitable it was for Cuddy’s maturity to outsmart House’s vulnerabilities. 

His leg seized, forcing him to clutch it. Despite the obvious struggle he was in, the icy blues remained frozen. They spoke to him in a way no other hallucination had been able to do, then again, the real man was much of the same way. He never said much, particularly during punishments; he tended to act like a silent hunter, a prowler. 

“Why are you here, Greg?”

“ _You_ told me to.”

“I’m you and you know that, so stop bullshitting. Why are you here?”

“You think I want to be here? To remember you of all people?!”

“Man, this world has it ass-backwards with you, don’t they, Boy? How are considered a genius when you can’t even figure yourself out?”

“Cause everyone’s an idiot.”

“Including this...Wilson?”

House couldn’t be sure but if he read his hallucination correctly, his eyes were mirroring the icy blues. Narrowed and sharp, angry. “Wilson is not an idiot.”

“That’s not true, is it, Boy?”

A new sense of pain blossomed in his jaw from the stress he was applying. He pressed his teeth together, sure that he was eroding his enamel. It was beginning to match the enormity of his thigh. House recognized a shift and watched as his father sat at the edge of the tub.

“If not an idiot, then he’s got to be something else. Otherwise, what kind of man willingly befriends such a broken fool?”

“Wilson’s my best friend!”

“Why are you _here_ , Greg?”

_You are a dancing queen_

_Young and sweet_

_Only seventeen~_

House remembers the car ride to his father’s funeral; his mother called Wilson, who called Cuddy, who drugged him via a fake butt shot. Wilson was mad at him, after the events of Amber’s death, but the idiot still found enough Jewish guilt to listen to his mother and deal with him even though they were no longer on speaking terms. Minutes after coming to, his phone rang, indicating it was his team of ducklings calling about a case, but stubborn Wilson did not want to give him his phone.

 _“‘My ringtone for you is Dancing Queen by ABBA.’”_

Quipping with Wilson about ringtones and where to urinate spurred a wave of endorphins that diminished whenever the conversation of the funeral returned. It wasn’t the concept of the funeral that bothered House but it was all else associated with it. Memories of his father. Black tar coated his insides at the reminder of the _years_ of abuse he endured, all for it to be negated at a funeral. The entire car ride, the pain in his leg pulsated.

The lightbulb buzzed brightly in his thoughts. “I’m here,” he started slowly. “Because I’m lucky.”

The old face didn’t change expression with the exception of his eyes. They mellowed a smidge, telling House that he was on the right track. “Why are you lucky?”

In a split second, the past twenty years zipped by in his head. This “luckiness” started the moment he was told he was a genius at the age of 7. The signs were clear way before that, but with the House family moving every other year, no one could definitively tell. Life changed for him after that; every peer, teacher, relative, stranger tested him in some way, wanting to push the boundaries of just how much he knew. However, House thrived on it. Every answer he didn’t know, he’d research for days, ready to write an article about it just to show off. The years that followed, House was met with challenge after challenge, using his smarts in every way imaginable to gain a victory. Couldn’t get a girl? No problem, because he’d woo her by sneaking her into the chemistry lab and making her hair dye of her favorite color--House learned how to French kiss after that. Even his father’s abuse was secondary to the luck his geniusness brought him.

Then there’s the many countries his family moved to and the experiences he’s had in each of them. The people he’s met (and loved), the Japanse janitor that changed his life, his love for science and physics. It all amounted to his attachment to medicine. Still, mastering medicine and specializing in nephrology and infectious diseases became the greatest fun for him. Especially when most of his medical peers needed his help to solve the puzzles. It wasn’t long after that that he met Wilson. In the simple version, House was bored and found intrigue in this crazy, young man who chucked a bottle at a stained glass in the bar. 

In the long version, House felt electrified by the “mysterious” James Wilson. Everything dark and annoying instantly felt mollified by Wilson’s presence and due to his inability to explain _why_ , House would never open his mouth to admit so. Yes, he _was_ bored that night, but that couldn’t explain why he needed to befriend the young divorcee. Just something in House’s brain told him to ask questions later and act now. So without question, he bailed the oncologist out of jail and through sarcasm and charm, wooed him into beginning the friendship that they have today. It was that friendship that kept House from taking his life right after the infarction; he planned it out down to the second, but Wilson intervened and glued himself to his hip to keep watch, to stop him from trying again. 

Now years later, again, House feels at the cross road. There’s a part of him that wants to continue to take his life (he’s surprised the Vicodin didn’t work) and the other part sees a whole new vision. The John-Hallucination-- _House will call him Jyllenhall for short_ \--wasn’t there to traumatize him, but to get him to figure the puzzle out. The puzzle about his “luck” and leg. _That_ was the real reason they stopped speaking after the infarction.

“I wouldn’t have gotten addicted,” Jyllenhall grumbled.

“You would have been more of an asshole.”

The blue eyes narrowed in what looked like amusement. “How so?”

“Scream at Mom, hit me, blow through 7 cigars a day. No, you wouldn’t have numbed the pain; you would have made it a point to suffer through it to prove you’re a man.”

“Then why did you keep your leg?” Jyllenhall knew the answer of course--he was a part of House’s brain--but clearly House needed to hear himself say it out loud.

“To prove to you how much of a man I was. That was a stupid mistake, you didn’t even care when I was in the hospital.”

“You wanted me there?”

Honestly, no. Jyllenhall’s presence would have forced House to demand DNR. He held a lot of respect for his “father” and writhing in pain would have shamed him. There was respect but he couldn’t find an ounce of love for the man. Jyllenhall must have suspected that the child he assumed was his, didn’t love him, because where House could emotionally feel warmth and pull with Wilson, the complete opposite was felt with his father. Every room they existed in together was but a sample size of the Third Circle of Hell. It would have been painfully worse if Jyllenhall were there. Yet he wonders...

“If you _were_ there, would you have told me to keep the leg?” It was a question he went back and forth with for years. Although he knew where his mother stood, Jyllenhall was hard to predict, because House’s pain was only valuable if he was inflicting it. With outside pain, however, his father tended to be indifferent.

Jyllenhall’s response could only be due to a long and distant memory that House had forgotten about. Honest to any deity, House had never seen his father smile or laugh, with the exception of photographs around the house that Blythe had of their wedding. But there had to have been at least one time for how else could he explain his hallucination currently smiling--with pearly whites shining.

“I would have told you to put a fucking bandaid on it and walk it off. That’s how a Marine would have done it.”

“I’m not a marine, Dad.”

“Then why do you have that leg?”

House didn’t answer but Inner Greg, internally, responded with a wave of desperation. _Because I didn’t want to disappoint you_. Not that it was needed to be said, if Jyllenhall’s expression was any indication. 

Instead, the man changed his tone and softly said, “Time to get out of the tub, Greg.”

If this was told to him--actually he had no idea how long he was sitting in the tub--since the beginning of this, he would have jumped at the chance no problem! Except now the idea sounded terrifying. Getting out of the tub felt exactly like his time with CB on the bus. The risk of getting out (or getting off) meant subjecting himself to more pain and rejection. 

“Only if you’re a Marine,” Jyllenhall reminded him. House forgot, he can “read” his thoughts. “Now get out of the tub.”

Disobeying the order, even from his own brain, didn’t spell well for House. With reluctance, he grabbed for the bar and hauled himself up. The water and ice no longer had the same effect as when he started, in fact, his body and leg felt a sense of freshness. Despite the shivers, House managed to step out of the tub feeling different than when he had gone in.

_You are a dancing queen_

_Young and sweet_

_Only seventeen~_

Right, he needed to answer Wilson otherwise the man will die of an aneurysm. He found himself baffled when he located his phone in the living room, on the floor, not ringing but it made sense a moment later when his regular hallucination slithered her way next to him.

  
“Your dad couldn’t remind you to put some clothes on?” Amber--CB--was as tall and beautiful as he remembered. 

“He figured you needed to know what a real one looks like.”

She smiled. “I’ve slept with Wilson. I’m familiar with real, although, you’re not too bad yourself.”

“Am I hitting on myself?”

“Not like you’re being entirely serious,” a third voice called, another familiar. Kutner came sauntering out from the direction of his bedroom with a smug smirk rivalring CB’s.

“Why were you in my bedroom?”

Kutner gave him a deadpan look, as if to silently call House an idiot. “You know wyt or at least you’ll figure it out later. You should listen to Amber and get some clothes on.”

The only reason he didn’t ask any more questions was because he figured Kutner was right and he’d discover the answers later. He limped his way to the bedroom to find clothes already laid out on the bed. Another time jump and House was wearing them, with no memory of when and how he was doing all of this. In a weird way, it was pretty cool that his body was sleepwalking around, completing tasks, only for his brain to catch up at a later point as if the task was completed by someone else. Once he was dressed, House found a small suitcase next to the bed. The anxiousness from before, while sitting in the tub, returned and settled in the pit of his stomach. Taking the suitcase meant reality and reality was frightening.

“Hurry up, Boy!”

His cane hand grabbed the handle of the suitcase and clutched it for dear life. With a shaky breath, he turned back and made his way to the three musketeers waiting for him. All three were smirking, looking at him with an energized excitement that was beginning to rub off on him. It really should have been alarming that he was making this step forward during a mental breakdown, yet nothing before had ever felt safer. Just as he was ready to head out the door, his heart jolted; there was one last thing he needed to do.

“Don’t worry,” CB assured him. “I--well you--already wrote it out. We knew exactly what words to use. Wilson will be mad, probably sad, but he’ll know exactly what we meant. He’ll understand.”

Sure enough, taped to the piano was a sheet of paper with elegant cursive that was House’s handwriting. Surprisingly as a doctor, House always had neat handwriting. Then with a final sigh, House closed his door and made his way to his new goal.


	2. Withdrawal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cuddy is desperate and Wilson is helpless.

**5.5 YEARS LATER….**

“With aggressive treatment, I’m confident your chances of remission will increase,” he said with a wide, strained smile. 

Mrs. Riley’s eyes were glassy from apparent joy. She choked out a  _ Thanks! _ and proceeded to squeeze his hands, also thanking God in the process. Right at the tip of his tongue, House’s voice almost came out to grumble  _ It was God that gave you cancer in the first place _ .

_ Shit _ . Nearly 6 years later and Wilson still couldn’t forget the man. It was beginning to become an everyday thing, nearly every half hour. After Mrs. Riley left, Wilson paged his secretary that he was unavailable for the next hour and proceeded to turn his lights off to prepare himself for his ritual wallowing. He splayed himself on his couch and stared at the ceiling, trying to convince himself that he was just tired. He was. Tired of not acknowledging how depressed he was. Tired of the withdrawal he felt from not having House around. Jesus, he dosed himself last year just to remember how House would do it to avoid having a “normal” conversation. Actually, Wilson wanted to see if he’d hallucinate like House, hoping maybe he could see Amber and talk with her and sort out all of this blackness sitting in his chest.

He honestly  _ hated _ to call it a cancer, but there was no other metaphor he could go with. It felt too cliche.  _ Bet House could come up with a better one _ . The blackness felt like a heavy rock, porous and heavy, poisonous. Wilson theorized that the blackness metasicized after House’s departure because House was a personified “darkness”; it only made sense that in their friendship, House absorbed everything dark and his leaving now left nothing (no one) to take it away. Wilson was forced to  _ sit with it _ . To deal with it. It left him angry, all the time, sarcastic; he even felt achy all over his body. His joints would whine or his head would blast with migraines frequently. No one could barely stand to be with him and with House being his only best friend, he felt rather lonely nowadays.  _ Like House _ . The back of his eyes turned painful at the thought.

Wilson prided himself in being a good person, in loving life and finding the silver lining where he could--it was an oncologist trait--but after House left, he re-evaluated everything. Maybe he wasn’t as good of a friend as he thought, maybe he really was the shittiest husband, maybe he wasn’t as benevolent of a doctor as he believed. He failed. He failed House just like he failed his brother all of those years ago. And that’s what pained him the most. His friendship with House was a layered universe unexplainable by any science or logic. Shit, even magic couldn’t touch how their friendship functioned. Yet, there was a small, hidden part of Wilson that stuck by the cantankerous oaf to try and redo his past mistake. Maybe he couldn’t save his brother but he could try and save House. The true mistake was assuming that House needed saving and fixing.

It made Wilson chuckle miserably, thinking about young Cameron during her infatuation days with House. House rejecting her, at the time, made no sense to Wilson because he thought a beautiful woman with loving and caring tendencies was exactly what House needed! But later, it made more sense that they didn’t stay together because Cameron wanted to fix House, to “save” him. His reasoning may be different, but he wasn’t any different from Cameron if all he wanted to do was take the funny, annoying, charming, stupid, genuis away and replace it with a “normal” guy.  _ If only I could apologize _ . 

Suddenly his door swung open and memories of House doing the exact same thing came flooding. Desperately, he wanted it to be House with his uneven gait, quipping with a gay joke followed by a slew of vague symptoms and “Everyone Lies” mantra. Instead, it was his former half, Cuddy. In the years that followed House’s departure, she looked worse for wear, more aged and unorganized than he ever remembered. Since House only left a note--for Wilson--there was no closure for her and the guilt clearly ate at her without hesitation. 

The years have also strained their friendship; it wasn’t that Wilson blamed her for everything, but he didn’t  _ not _ hold her accountable for some of the misgivings. Cuddy dumping a drug addict for acting like drug addict and then leaving him alone without following it up with a phone call to anyone--him--was a pretty stupid thing to do. Even now, it was hard not to get angry at her for ending things in that manner. Yet, he couldn’t hate her. She was also his friend--but not best friend--and recently, she’s been hanging by an emotional thread since Rachel’s admittance to the hospital.

“Any news?” He inquired, asking softly to avoid a potential breakdown on her behalf.

She shook her head, spilling fresh tears in the process. Her face looked pale, sunken in and long. It was evident that she wasn’t eating well. “Still the same. At least that means nothing worse, right?” She tried to joke. It relieved Wilson that he wasn’t the only one that tried to play House when House wasn’t here to play himself. “I did something.”

Her tone sounded off, robotic, but with Wilson being as Jewish as she was, he could spot the guilt a mile away. “To Rachel? You’re not supposed to be on the case, Lisa--”

“No, not her.”

“What did you do?” He watched as she made her way into the room, closing the door behind her. Neither made a comment on the darkness of the room. Maybe she wanted it that way to avoid her having to look at Wilson.

“I called Lucas.”

Silence.

“Lucas as in…?” Her head moved in affirmation. “Why?”

“Because...I can’t, James. Rachel’s sick; it’s been a week. I need his help.”

Satan must have patted his back when he sat up because Wilson felt an unbearable heat scorching his spine and making a trail around his ribs to his chest. Ire boiled under his skin, singeing his bones and organs. “You’re going to look for him? Have you lost your mind?!!”

“You think I want to  _ see _ him?! That I want to resort to this?!”

“Why do you say it like that? Like you haven’t wanted to contact him for the past 6 years!” He sprang from the couch to send a glare through the dark room. He hoped she felt it more than saw it.

She too mimicked his stance and stood toe to toe with him. “Screw you! Rachel is sick, maybe dying and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her alive. House left, James, he left! He ran away just like he always does!”

“Because you dumped him,” he said through gritted teeth. It sounded childish but he didn’t like that she was throwing him under the bus. That she was mocking his effort and his response of their relationship.

“Yeah, that’s a normal response,” she scoffed. “Run away when a woman asserts herself.”

“You think you asserted yourself? Running away from  _ his _ flaws is still a form of running away, Lisa. You ended an entire relationship because you couldn’t admit you failed. Now that no doctor here can help you, you want to use him. What happens after? If he saves her, then what? You disappear? Come back to being the dean like nothing happened? What happens, Lisa?” He hadn’t realized he was raising his voice and yelling at a crying Cuddy.

With tears saturating the lower half of her face, “I’m going to find him. What happens afterwards is my problem when it gets there. Until then, Rachel’s health comes first.” And with that, she clacked her way out of his office.

It burned him that she was finding an opportunity to see House and it made him jealous. He wanted to find House. He needed to see House again. The note that House had left in his apartment, although short, spelled clearly that House was on a journey and wouldn’t return until the time was right. That no one should look for him. Wilson  _ wanted _ , badly, to forgo that idea and look for House just to punch him in the face. What stopped him in his tracks was the hidden message in between the cursive writing; it was in brail, a language Wilson knew nothing about. So he had to find someone who did know the language and translate it for him.

_ Amber says hello. Don’t worry, Wilson. People don’t change. I will _ .

Just remembering it made tears burn the back of his eyes. God, he really wanted to see if House stuck to his words...reluctantly, he grabbed his phone and sought Cuddy’s contact info. He texted her an  _ ‘I’m coming along’. _ Even if things turned sour, Wilson would know more information now than he would if he didn’t pursue this.

**1 WEEK LATER** …

Wilson and Cuddy sat together in a booth of a nearby cafe. Except for their exchange in Wilson’s office, the two hadn’t spoken to each other aside from morning greetings. Wilson was still upset that Cuddy was violating House’s wishes and Cuddy was peeved that Wilson couldn’t brush aside his faux-bravado to help her save her daughter. They remained civil until Lucas arrived and made a seat for himself across from them. 

“Hey,” he started softly. He could tell that the atmosphere was morose. Maybe Cuddy’s talked to him before now and he understands that they are desperate and running out of time.

“So?” Cuddy pressed.

A long exhale depleted Lucas’ poised posture. “...I’m pretty sure I found him.”

“You don’t know?” Wilson asked, feeling a little irritable. 

“I didn’t actually  _ see _ him in person but I found a ton of information on him. Here’s the address; he’s living with two women.”

“What, that’s it? How is he? What’s he doing--” Cuddy was cut short with a wave of Lucas’ hand.

“You asked me to find him. I did. You want specifics, you’re going to have to go there,” he said pointing to the piece of paper with the address on it. “And ask him yourself. All I can say is...it’s different. So be careful.” With that, he slid himself out of the booth and walked away without a single glance backwards.

Cuddy appeared zoned out in another universe, leaving Wilson to snag the paper to see where House could be living. The address was in Bronxville, New York, about 2 hours away if Wilson remembered right. “Lisa.”

“Let’s go.”

“What, today? What about Rachel?”

“I talked with Foreman and the rest of the team. I gave him clear instructions so if there’s any trouble, I’ll know. We should go now so we can stop wasting time.”

Wilson’s heart was hammering away. It was a blend of excitement and anxiety--they were actually going to see House! He was still pondering about what Lucas had said, about things being different; he wondered what that meant. It was worrisome especially since they had to be “careful”. Using Wilson’s car, they drove silently for the two hours, only listening to the radio on low. It wasn’t as if Wilson knew what to say--what could one say in this situation? If she were doing this because she  _ wanted _ to see House again, there could be a mountain’s worth of advice Wilson could recycle to her, but this was different. Cuddy needed a serious favor, one that could indebt her to House for the rest of her life. Then there’s the matter of how they’d find House; is he in a group/co-ed situation? Is he still on Vicodin? If so, who is giving it to him or how else is he getting them? Is he practicing medicine? So many questions!

The car ride felt like torture! Every mile they completed put them closer to their destination and again, that set Wilson’s heart thumping wildly. It almost reached a point where he thought he would pull over and have Cuddy finish driving the rest of the way. He must have been locked in his mental panic for a while because Cuddy had been calling his name.

“Are you okay?”

“What? Yes! I’m fine.”

His stammering managed to create a small smile on Cuddy’s face. “You too?”

“Kind of, but I feel like I’m blowing it out of proportion. This is House we’re talking about, how bad can it be?”

If Cuddy had a retort, she kept it to herself. She tried widening her smile to show that she was in support of Wilson’s panic but the effort drained her. Her smile fell, leaving a sagging frown in its place. “The GPS says we’re 10 minutes away.”

Wilson tightened his grip on the steering wheel, nodding in acknowledgement. 10 minutes left to go…

The neighborhood reminded Wilson of his childhood home; two sides of the street had a row of houses, similar in shape and style, with bright green lawns, fences, a few dogs barking or laying about. In the distance, he could hear echoes of laughter from children but the rest of the neighborhood was rather quiet. 

_ You have arrived at your destination _ , the female GPS voice called.

The colonial-style home was exactly what Wilson pictured for House; he was always a simple man that took more pleasure in simplicity than crazy amenities and luxuries. There wasn’t anything crazy about it’s design, in fact, it was rather charming. The frames for the windows, door and garage were all white and there was a fence that suggested there was a pretty sizable yard in the back that must have matched the big front, covered by grass, trees and bushes. Connected to the driveway was a tri-colored stone, cracked-pattern walkway leading up to the door. It matched the stone walls of the house and chimney. 

“It’s cute,” Cuddy whispered.

Wilson agreed, his throat dried up as he stared out his window. On the other side of those walls, was House.  _ House _ . “If we don’t get out now, we’ll never do it. We need to hurry.” Of course Wilson was merely speaking on auto-pilot, feeling all out of sorts at the prospect that he was just a few minutes away from seeing House again. 

Ignoring their earlier spat, Wilson took it upon himself to get out of the car, go around, and hold out his hand for Cuddy to grab on to. She appeared relieved and thankful as she clutched on to his hand and held on for dear life. Despite how short the walkway was, it took them several minutes to reach the door. One would think, with Rachel on her mind, Cuddy would be running to the door, already pleading with House for help. She truly must have been nervous as she did not knock on the door despite standing right in front of it. So Wilson squeezed her other hand and knocked on it himself at the same time they heard a voice behind them.

“Excuse me?”

Due to their nerves, they both whipped around to come face to face with a beautiful, tall woman. She was taller than both Wilson and Cuddy (but the stilettos she was wearing may have altered that perception), pin-straight dark hair, slim build although she seemed bulked with the coat she was wearing. She was looking at them innocently however there was a guarded edge to her.

It looked as if she was going to ask a follow-up question but the front door swung open with another woman--whom Wilson thought physically, was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen--answering. “Hello?” The woman at the door saw the other woman, immediately looking curious. “Dom, what’s going on?”

“I found these two standing by the door.” There was a heavy accent accompanying the woman’s words. It sounded Russian or some kind of North-European to Wilson.

The eyes of the two women zeroed in on Wilson and Cuddy. “Jehovah witness?” The woman--assumably not “Dom”--asked.

“N-No! Sorry, we’re looking for a Gregory House? We were told he lives here?” Cuddy hastily replied.

Simultaneously, their eyes narrowed in suspicion. Suddenly, “Dom” rambled in a foreign language that sounded too complicated for either Wilson or Cuddy to understand. Her voice no longer sounded light or curious, but striking and dark. The other woman replied but her words did not sound like the same language. Actually, with the amount of telenovelas Wilson has watched in his life, he was sure she was speaking Spanish, but he couldn’t understand much since she was speaking at a speed too quick for his ears.

The Spanish woman growled, “Are you the ones that have been stalking us?”

_ Oh God _ ! Wilson’s eyes widened, worried that they have just put their foot in their mouth. “We have a patient! For House. We need his help, please.”

“You think that justifies you sneaking around--”

“That was my mistake!” Cuddy exclaimed, looking desperate. “I hired a private detective to find him before it was too late. I’m sorry, very sorry if my choices made you uncomfortable, but I need help. My daughter is in the hospital, dying of something no one else can identify, and I wouldn’t be here, begging, if I didn’t have a choice. Does Gregory House live here?”

Dom’s eyes softened considerably. “I’m very sorry, but many people ask for help from him. He’s busy man. Please leave.” She attempted to step through them to enter the home but Wilson felt as if they couldn’t just give up there.

“Wait!” His hand meant to gently grab Dom by the arm, to grab her attention, but the Spanish woman caught the shift and instantly snatched his wrist. Her grip was rather strong and it was all the warning Wilson needed to back off. 

“Do that again and I’ll snap it off,” she spat.

“We’re not patients--he knows us.”

The woman’s eyes pierced his, gaging him for the truth, except it was interrupted when the door widened by a third party.

“They already follow the Cult of de Casa so try brainwashing the neighbors down the street.” The voice was deep and humorous, exactly as Wilson last remembered. In a millisecond, Wilson was able to see the old House that he’s always remembered; graying hair, tall and lanky, scruffy face, yet at the same time, he saw someone completely new. The man looked pink and plump with tired, vibrant blue eyes. His frame was still on the thinner side, but his clothes (or just the shirt that Wilson could see) looked fitted and  _ not _ wrinkled.

When House saw who was at the door, his jaw fell open and his eyes shape-shifted to the size of cotton balls. “Wilson?”

Both Dom and the Spanish woman looked at House before looking at Wilson in surprise. “Wilson?!”


End file.
